


make it easy for me

by lark_song



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Legally Blonde Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accident mention, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, No Twincest, Other Character Tags to be Added - Freeform, Past Trauma Mention, Slow Burn (ish), bodily injury mention, i have no excuse for this and no one asked for it but it's happening, idiots falling in love, ilyn is jaime's emotional support companion, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lark_song/pseuds/lark_song
Summary: In which: Jaime goes to law school to prove the haters wrong; Brienne has the brain that launched a thousand competency boners; and Ilyn is just here for the free rent.(a legally blonde au)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 57
Kudos: 94





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! 
> 
> welcome to the legally blonde AU that i have decided to force upon whoever will read it. this fic follows the some of the plot of legally blonde (with plenty of divergences). some bits of dialogue from jaime's video essay and the admissions committee scene were pulled from the movie.
> 
> mostly jaime POV, but others may sneak in from time to time. 😈 for reference: jaime is 27 in this chapter. at the start of chapter two, jaime is 28 and brienne is 24.
> 
> no twincest in this fic (bc i couldn't be bothered and i'm not sorry about it). i've essentially cut the warner storyline from this AU, so while cersei does appear in this chapter, it's her only appearance for the rest of the fic (though she will be mentioned from time to time).
> 
> have you watched the movie recently? it's a wild-ass premise. this first chapter is more crackish than the rest of the story—though, the entire story is fairly cracky, so. be warned. also, i know nothing about law school. basing most of this on u.s. examples, but if anything is just straight-up wrong... ignore it 🙃
> 
> this should be updated every two weeks or so, depending on how impatient (or blocked) i feel. please note the rating is currently T, but may be upped to M in later chapters—i'll give you a heads up if that ends up being the case. title comes from 'i can change' by LCD soundsytem.
> 
> unbeta'd etc etc
> 
> thanks for reading! 💙 i'd love to hear what you think so far. if you participate in the shared parasocial experience that is tumblr, you can find me there @tiredandtoothless
> 
> xoxo
> 
> p.s. subsequent chapter notes will be... significantly shorter. my personal guarantee to u 💙

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

Jaime mentally reviewed the last five minutes. The waiter had dropped off the champagne at the table. He’d gotten down on one knee before Cersei. Pulled the ring from his pocket. Said the words. Asked the question. She’d said yes.

She had said yes, hadn’t she? People were cheering, dabbing at their eyes with cloth napkins; she had to have said yes.

A shaft a light fell across the ring where it sat in the compact velvet box, refracting sunlight to send a smattering of rainbow-hued dots across Cersei’s high, smooth forehead. She was smiling, but between her brows was the ghost of a crease.

“Come here, Jaime,” she murmured, voice sweet but posture tense, rigid.

Jaime scrambled to his feet, meeting her halfway as she pushed back from her chair and stood. Cersei was wearing those heels—the ones he liked, the ones that made it so that he had to tilt up his chin fractionally to kiss her. She looked down on him now. Pulled him close by his shirt collar. Kissed him softly. A few people seated near them clapped approvingly.

Cersei pulled back slightly. She was still smiling, but her eyes raged. Why didn’t she look happy? She was supposed to look happy.

She spoke against the soft skin of his ear. “I’m going to put that ring on my finger because people are watching us and they might be taking pictures and I don’t want to go viral for this little display of yours,” she whispered, her voice cutting through the enthusiastic well-wishes of the other diners. Jaime’s heart was pounding; his empty stomach roiled. “Then, you’ll tell the waiter to bring us the check, which you will pay. Immediately. You’ll walk me to my car and I’ll return the ring to you and you’ll never contact me again.”

He blinked. Cersei took a half-step back and cooed over the ring, taking it from the box and slipping it over her finger with a dazzling smile.

“ _Darling_ ,” she breathed, loudly enough for the people seated closest to them to hear. Her eyes were fixed on the sparkling diamond set on a thin gold band. She leaned in close again, pressed her lips to his.

The moment caught up to him. “What the _fuck_ is happening?” he hissed, Cersei’s face a hair’s breadth away from his. He could smell the wine—a tannic red—on her breath, and something else; something floral and musky and almost masculine. She’d smelled different as of late. A new perfume, maybe.

“I asked you to talk to your father about promoting me to Vice President of Operations,” she replied quietly, still smiling that brittle smile. “He gave it to your cousin Daven. You made a fool of me, Jaime.”

Gentle fingers wiped her cherry red lipstick from his bottom lip. With her face so close to his, Jaime’s entire field of vision was green and gold and cream and red.

“Ten years. That’s how long I’ve put up with your jealousy and your clinging and your complete lack of ambition. Ten years of waiting.” she continued between featherlight kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his brow. She reached between them and squeezed his forearm just below his wrist, where the thick scar tissue that snaked down his right hand ended. Through the thick cotton of his crisp maroon button-up, her nails dug crescent moons into his skin. “Even before _this_ , you were listless. Content to wile away the days with your father’s money. And for a time, it was worth it. I had my career and, thanks to you, Tywin’s good favor. But now I can scarcely show my face at work while your cousin peacocks around the office all day. I fought for us every day, Jaime. Can you say the same? Did you even bother speaking to your father?”

In truth, he had barely fought for Cersei’s promotion at all. His father had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that the only way Cersei would ever rise within the Brightroar Inc. ranks was if Jaime assumed his proper place as heir-apparent and promoted her himself. It was a non-starter, and Jaime had ended the conversation within five minutes.

Cersei leaned back, brought her hands up to hold his face with calculating hands. Her nails dug into the hollows of his cheekbones. The heat of her hands had already warmed the gold band of the ring; its press against his jawline felt like a brand.

“You—Cersei, _what is happening_?” he repeated, grasping her elbows as tightly as he could. Desperate. His right hand could barely clasp the sharp jut of her left elbow. Discreetly, she shook off his scarred hand: a tiny, nearly imperceptible movement, but it sent a tremor through him all the same. His hand hanged at his side, weakly grasping at air. “You said you wanted—”

“I said a lot of things, Jaime.” Her smile glittered like shards of glass. “But you’re almost thirty-years-old—”

“ _We’re_ twenty-seven—”

“—and you have no idea what you want, and you certainly can’t help me get what I want. I need a partner. An equal. I thought with your background, the opportunities available to a Lannister…”

It always came down to that name. His name. His _father’s_ name. What it could do for other people.

He couldn’t move. The scent of freshly baked bread coming out of the kitchen filled his nostrils; he nearly retched at the smell.

“Oh, Jaime,” Cersei tutted, eyes falling back to the ring on her finger. It hung loosely above her first knuckle, the heavy diamond listing toward her pinky.

Slowly, deliberately, she returned her gaze to Jaime’s face. Her eyes boring into his left him dizzy. A tingling sensation spread across his scalp, down his neck, and across his shoulders, like tiny droplets of ice-cold water. She smoothed his curls away from his face. He couldn’t stop blinking. Everyone was looking at them.

“Sweet boy,” she purred, “you didn’t even get the right size.”

∆ ∆ ∆

Time did not pass in a blur so much as a blink: one moment, he was buckling himself into the driver’s seat of his car, the ring he’d bought for Cersei a heavy weight in his shirt pocket; the next, he was in his driveway, the low rumble of the idling car ringing in his ears as he clutched the steering wheel with white knuckles.

He caught sight of his dazed expression in the rearview mirror, his mouth slightly agape and eyes red-rimmed. He’d been crying at some point. When had he started crying? When had he stopped?

Slowly, he unbuckled his seatbelt. Cut the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. Popped open the door. Took a few deep breaths before extricating himself from the car. Approached the front door to his townhouse one step at a time.

One foot in front of the other: that was all he needed to focus on—all he _could_ focus on.

Soon, he would be inside, where his bourbon was, and he could pour himself a drink and figure out what the hell wentwrong. Ilyn would be home; he never said much, though that made him the ideal companion for commiseration, as far as Jaime was concerned.

He and Cersei loved each other. They _had_ —ever since they’d met at a lawn party the summer after their first year at KLU. From the very first moment he saw her, he’d known she was it. Everything he’d ever done had been for her.

He’d stayed in school for Cersei. Stayed in King’s Landing for Cersei. Framed poor, trusting Falyse Stokeworth for hacking Professor Pycelle’s computer to change the midterm grades he’d just finalized—for Cersei. That one still left a sour taste in his mouth, though whether the sour taste stemmed from the incident itself or his lack of regret thereof, Jaime neither knew nor cared to know. And when Cersei asked him to approach his father about the promotion she’d been vying for, he _had_ , even though he generally avoided Tywin at all costs and had, up until that point, spent a blissful ten months free of all contact with the man.

And Cersei had made great sacrifices for Jaime’s sake, too, hadn’t she? When he’d been in the car accident that had nearly claimed his right hand three years ago, she’d flown to be by his side the moment her business in Dorne had wrapped up—a full forty-eight hours earlier than his father had deigned to make an appearance. And when he’d been released from the hospital, she’d been there for him while he recovered: driving him to physical therapy when Ilyn and Addam were unavailable, or when Tyrion couldn’t send Bronn; never drawing attention to or touching his right hand, not even when they fucked, though he knew she’d been frustrated by the learning curve he’d encountered in using his left to touch her; she’d even pretended not to notice the smell or his soft whimpers when she happened to be around when the nurses made house visits to change the dressing on his wounds.

Even after his hand had been mangled and the words ‘accommodation’ and ‘adaptive’ had leeched into his everyday vocabulary, she’d still wanted to marry him. They’d even discussed a timeline on their engagement: a ring before thirty, she’d said, and he’d obliged. Or tried to, anyway.

He and Cersei had been solid. He’d been so sure of it. There had to be a way to fix this; he just needed some time to clear his head and figure out the path forward.

Finally, Jaime reached the front door. He turned his key in the lock, leaned his weight against the—

“ _Surprise!_ ” shouted no fewer than three dozen voices in unison.

Shit.

The party.

He’d forgotten that he’d planned a surprise party to celebrate their would-be engagement with their friends.

Cheers and laughter filled the space. A few people standing near Jaime set off confetti poppers in his direction, sending acrid strips of brightly-colored tissue paper into his mouth. Jaime flinched and spat the confetti to the floor. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and surveyed the room. Very quickly, celebration gave way to an awkward, heavy silence.

Taena Merryweather was the first to risk opening her mouth—because _of course_ she was. “Where… where’s Cersei?” came her voice from somewhere to Jaime’s left.

He glared wordlessly in Taena’s direction. Behind her, an ugly, handmade banner hung from one of the rafters running across the vaulted ceiling. The crooked, looping script read, _CONGRATULATIONS, LOVEBIRDS!!_

Jaime was struck, first, by a vision of Peck clambering up a teetering ladder to hang the thing, and then, by the realization that Cersei would have detested something so obviously and hideously homemade gracing a party held in her honor.

Someone was laughing: a horrible, crazed, mirthless sound.

It was him—he was the one laughing. The sound died as abruptly as the awareness dawned on him.

“Out,” he bit out. “All of you. _Out_.”

His guests balked.

“ _Everyone out!_ ” Jaime shouted.

As people began filing out, Jaime scanned the room. He found the people he was looking for on the other side of the wide space seated on a couch near the door leading to the backyard.

“You three. Stay,” he barked at Tyrion, Addam, and Ilyn. They nodded mutely, all three anchored to the plush leather couch.

Jaime made a beeline for the bar cart on the left side of the room and poured himself three fingers of bourbon. Drink in hand, he turned around to glower at the departing guests. The sight of Bronn slinking toward the front door reminded Jaime of the now-useless engagement ring in his shirt pocket.

“Bronn—wait.” He beckoned to Bronn, who veered toward the bar cart almost immediately, one brow arched quizzically. Jaime dug through his shirt pocket and produced the ring, thrusting it out toward Bronn once he neared. The ostentatious diamond glinted mockingly in the light. “Take this.”

Bronn eyed the ring warily, but not with disinterest. “And do what with it?”

“Pawn it. Melt it down. Wear it around your shriveled cock and prance naked through the Great Sept of Baelor, for all I care—just get it out of my sight. I don’t want to see it again.”

Bronn shrugged and pocketed the ring, mumbling something about rich fucks and private planes. He touched two fingers to his forehead in a sardonic salute before loping toward the exit once more.

Once the front door shut behind Bronn, Jaime glanced at Tyrion, Ilyn, and Addam, who watched him with bewildered expressions of concern. Jaime downed his drink in one go. Refilled his glass. No one said a word until Jaime sank into an armchair placed diagonally from the couch where his hostages were seated.

“Cersei dumped me.” He took a long sip of his drink, ignoring the sympathetic grimace on Addam’s face. Ilyn hardly reacted at all, and for that Jaime was grateful.

“We gathered as much,” Tyrion replied, tone tentative. “Why would she—”

“The ‘why’ of it doesn’t matter right now,” Jaime interrupted. “I just need to get her back.”

The three men on the couch shared an incredulous look, which Jaime ignored.

“Listen,” he told his brother, “I need you to talk to Father.”

Tyrion pursed his lips, a deep crease of puzzlement appearing between his brows. “Why?”

“There’s a job. Executive… operative, or something or other—”

“ _You_ want to come work at Brightroar? For _Father_?” Tyrion fought to keep a scowl off his face, but his displeasure was clear. It stung, but Jaime was aware of the tenuousness of Tyrion’s position and their father’s company; Tyrion had only been permitted to rise as high as he had because Jaime shirked all association with the family empire, much to their father’s palpable disappointment. Were Jaime to cede to their father’s wishes, Tyrion would be cast aside in an instant.

“Not _me_ ,” Jaime clarified, tone bitter. “Cersei’s the one who wants it.”

Tyrion threw his head back in laughter. “Cersei wants to be _Vice President of Operations_? She’s mad. I’ve only barely made Director of Finance and I’m his _son_. Father can’t stand the sight of me, but at least I’m family. Who does she think she—,” he paused, leaning back slightly in his seat as he squinted in Jaime’s direction. “What does this have to do with your proposal?”

Jaime frowned. “I was supposed to speak to father about it, but—I-I messed up. I didn’t fight hard enough for her—”

“You’re telling me Cersei rejected your proposal and dumped you because you couldn’t get her a job at a company you don’t even work for?” Addam asked, a disbelieving sweep to his brow.

Jaime sighed, “Among other things, yes.” He turned to Tyrion. “Are you going to help or not?”

His brother sighed. “Jaime—”

“No. I don’t need your opinion on this, I just need you to get it done. If I can help her get this job, then maybe—maybe…”

“Father already gave the job to Daven. Nothing anyone—least of all me—says will change his mind. Besides, I don’t think getting her the job will make much of a difference at this point.”

Jaime sagged into his seat with a dejected groan. “I don’t know what else to do. She told me I don’t know what I want. That I’m ambitionless.” He drained his glass a second time, setting it down carelessly on the coffee table between the couch and armchair.

No one said anything, just stared back at him with something approaching sympathy. “You all agree with her?” he asked, voice half-frantic. Tyrion and Addam shook their heads halfheartedly.

“I wouldn’t say you’re—aimless,” ventured Addam. “I think anyone would need time after going through what you… went through.”

Jaime grimaced. He didn’t want to talk about his accident. He wished his glass would refill itself.

“Then what is it?”

Addam shifted in his seat, throwing a nervous glance in Tyrion’s direction. Between them, Ilyn sat stone-faced with his elbows resting on his knees, betraying nothing more than utter boredom with the situation.

“Jaime…” Addam started, “there’s something Tyrion needs to tell you.” Tyrion straightened near violently, tossing Addam a murderous look. Jaime’s stomach dropped, though he couldn’t say why. Tyrion cleared his throat.

“Actually, I think it’s best if it comes from Addam.” He aimed a sharp, closed-lipped smile at Addam, who had begun fidgeting.

“Well, I suppose now’s as good a time as any,” Adam mumbled, “Cersei, ah… you see, it’s become apparent—”

Tyrion interrupted Addam with an impatient sigh. “Cersei’s been fucking Kettleblack,” he snapped.

Jaime’s blood froze; his head buzzed. The bourbon he’d downed threatened to make a return trip. “Osmund or Osney?” he asked in a weak voice. As if it mattered.

“Both, for all I know. Our cousin Lancel as well. And—this one isn’t quite confirmed, but a few people have seen her out with Moon Boy. The, ah, street artist.”

“You’re lying. I don’t believe you.”

Ilyn broke his silence. “He’s not,” he said gruffly.

The room was spinning. Jaime clutched at the armrests of his chair to steady himself, to little effect. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed. “And you all knew?”

His brother and Addam nodded solemnly. “Everyone knew, or—suspected,” Adam said.

“And no one thought to tell me?” Jaime growled, heat rising in his cheeks. He felt drunk.

Glancing down at the empty glass on the coffee table, he remembered that he _was_ drunk.

“Would you have believed us before today?” asked Tyrion, a wry set to his mouth.

Jaime’s head dropped. He gaped at the space between his feet.

Things started sliding into place then: Cersei’s reluctance to move in together; the all too frequent instances in which her phone went directly to voicemail; her odd aversion to attending family get-togethers at his uncle Kevan’s house; the new, unfamiliar scent that had sometimes clung to her skin in recent months. It all seemed so obvious, now that Tyrion had laid the truth before him.

“I’m an idiot,” Jaime moaned into his hands.

“No!” interjected Addam, just as Tyrion said, “Yes.”

For a while, all Jaime could do was stare at the backs of his eyelids and listen to his heart thrumming in his ears.

Slowly, he collected himself.

When he lifted his head, he spoke in a clear voice. “I need to do something. To show her she’s wrong about me, that I’m not—aimless, or whatever it is she thinks of me.”

Addam and Tyrion exchanged another look. Jaime was quickly growing tired of their shared looks.

“I don’t think winning her back should be your first concern—” Jaime cut off Tyrion.

“I don’t—it’s not about winning her back,” he said. And it wasn’t. Knowing what he knew now… reconciliation was not an option. His _cousin_ , for fuck’s sake! “I just want to prove her wrong. I _need_ to prove her wrong.”

His brother tilted his head. “And how do you intend to do that?”

Jaime looked around the room, wracking his brain. His eyes landed on a photo mounted on the wall above the couch, taken on the day he graduated from university. His hair was shorter in the photo, closely cropped in the style he preferred before the accident, and his face was more open. Cersei beamed at his side. That day was the last time Jaime could remember feeling any sense of clarity about where his life was headed. When the picture was taken, Cersei had been one month away from starting her internship at Brightroar Inc., while Jaime—

The idea came to him suddenly.

“Law school!” he exclaimed.

“What about it?” asked Addam, trepidation written all over his face.

Jaime smiled for the first time in what felt like years. “I’m going to law school. I was accepted to the Citadel once before. How hard could it be to get in again? I’ll just need to re-take the LSAT, and—”

Tyrion cut in doubtfully. “You graduated ages ago. They’ll take one look at your application and all they’ll see is a man who graduated from university with decent grades—”

“ _Perfect_ grades. I graduated with honors.” He pointed toward the tassels draped around his neck in the photo on the wall.

“— _five years ago,_ and has spent his time since then on D&D campaigns and playing with _swords_ —"

“What’s wrong with playing D&D? It’s—enriching. You participate in every campaign! And the swords help with dexterity in my left hand, you know that.”

“You haven’t even held a full-time job since you graduated!”

Jaime fixed his brother with his most roguish smirk. “Well,” he said, to his companions’ visible dismay, “I’ll just have to give them something else to consider when they look at my application, won’t I?”

∆ ∆ ∆

He spent months studying, much to Ilyn’s—his defacto study buddy—irritation. Nigh endless nights spent tearing through study guides and practice tests, and it all came down to the unopened email sitting at the top of Jaime’s inbox.

Behind his shoulder, Ilyn loomed silently. Jaime craned his neck to look at him, hoping for reassurance and finding only detached curiosity. Ilyn shoved Jaime’s shoulder roughly, silently urging him to get it over with and open the email.

Jaime clicked on the email.

And giggled.

“Text Tyrion,” he instructed Ilyn through a shit-eating grin, “tell him we’ll need that film crew after all.”

Ilyn broke out into disbelieving laughter, a clacking sound that Jaime scarcely registered; he couldn’t stop staring at the score on his laptop screen: 177.

A few minutes later, Jaime’s phone chimed twice. He tore his eyes from the computer to read the messages.

> _**Tyrion (2:17pm):** _ _film crew booked for nxt weekend. bronn running point.  
>  __**Tyrion (2:17pm):** _ _well done, brother. u may pull this off after all._

∆ ∆ ∆

_The video opens with a shot of a jacuzzi, surrounded by tropical greenery. Center of frame, Jaime reclines in waist-deep, gently gurgling water with his elbows propped against the decking behind him, the muscles of his chest pulled taut. Jaime looks into the camera with an appealing half-smile._

_“My name is Jaime Lannister and for my admissions video essay, I’d like to tell all of you at the Citadel why I’m going to make an amazing lawyer,” he purrs, voice honeyed. A curl falls to hang in front of his forehead. Jaime smoothly blows it away, then winks at the camera._

_Cut to large, brightly lit formal dining room. In the middle of the room, a large, ornately carved cherry wood table, around which sit Bronn, Addam, Tyrion, and a burly, bearded man with wild blonde waves—Jaime and Tyrion’s cousin, Daven. Jaime stands at the head of the table, facing the camera with his hands braced against the polished wood in a commanding fashion._

_“As an experienced dungeon master for my tabletop group, I’m skilled at commanding the attention of a room and making tough decisions,” Jaime declares. He knocks a fist against the table firmly and addresses the men seated around the table, “A nat 20 is indisputable. The tentacle monster is persuaded by our bard to join the campaign!”_

_His companions clap in assent, murmuring approvingly._

_The camera cuts to an overhead shot of a pool, the water a crisp blue and glimmering under the strong summer sun. Jaime, lounging on a translucent bright green raft, floats into frame. His dark blue swimming shorts are slung low on his hips, revealing a dusting of hair on his navel, and his golden curls fan out luxuriously against the raft headrest. Jaime’s eyes peer out over the top of fashionable sunglasses, their frames a rich gold._

_Adam, lounging similarly, floats by on a yellow raft. As he passes through the frame, he addresses Jaime in a stilted voice, “Jaime, do you know the name of Mance Rayder’s first number one hit?”_

_“Why, yes, Addam, I do,” Jaime replies smoothly, “Mance Rayder first topped the charts with his folksy rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair nearly twenty-one years ago.”_

_He addresses the camera directly, “With my impeccable memory, I’m able to recall crucial details when they matter most.”_

_Cut to a lush, green park in the middle of King’s Landing. Jaime struts down a crowded path toward the camera. His dark wash jeans are tight, as is the burnt orange knit sweater clinging to his torso._

_“I feel comfortable using legal jargon in my everyday life,” he drawls, dripping confidence._

_Off-camera, a passerby wolf whistles at him. Another calls for him to take off his sweater._

_“Sustained!” Jaime shouts back as he removes the sweater in one fluid motion._

_He stops in front of the camera with a winning smile, his chest glistening and eyes smoldering. “And that’s why,” he says in a husky voice, “you should choose me, Jaime Lannister, to join the Citadel’s next class of future lawyers.”_

∆ ∆ ∆

Doran Martell, Dean of Admissions, paused the video with an exhausted sigh. The top right corner of his tablet read 4:43 pm, which meant they would break for dinner in a little over an hour. Even with the short break for food, they had hours to go before they could call it a day. The air smelled sterile, recycled. His stomach rumbled. He glanced longingly at the small basket of citrus fruits in the far corner of the room, cursing the adversarial relationship between blood oranges and touchscreens, and silently vowed to ruin the first person to suggest a working dinner; slow, merciless revenge. Though, looking around at his equally hungry and tired colleagues seated at the round table that occupied most of the small conference room, his vow might have been unnecessary.

“Thoughts?” he asked the room.

“I thought it was compelling,” opined Ellaria Sand, Professor of Literary and Artistic Property Law.

To Ellaria’s left sat Olenna Tyrell, Professor of International law, Diplomacy, and Legislation. She hummed in agreement. “And he did graduate with top marks from KLU. Not an easy thing to do.”

Across from Olenna, Lysa Arryn, Professor of Torts and Civil Procedure, shifted in her seat. “Not to mention the fact that he’s an _experienced_ dungeon master,” she tittered.

“A dungeon master of Dungeons and Dragons,” Doran corrected Lysa sharply. “The roleplaying game. That’s what he meant by _tabletop group_ , Lysa.”

“Oh.” She deflated visibly.

“We _have_ always said this program needs more diverse perspectives,” Ellaria offered with a shrug of her shoulder. “His cohort might benefit from a more… creative mind in their midst.”

“Oh indeed,” said Olenna, a demure smile playing at her lips. She grasped her tablet and scrolled to the third page of Jaime’s application. “And it says here that he’s trained in Braavosi water dancing and classical Westerosi swordplay—the, ah, longsword, it says.”

The women shared looks across the table.

“What does that have to do with studying law?” he asked flatly.

“He’s a well-rounded individual.” Ellaria stared down Doran in challenge.

“I’ll say,” chirped Lysa, her eyes flitting to where Doran’s tablet faced the group. Jaime’s bared torso filled much of the screen.

“And it’s worth noting,” Ellaria continued, “his LSAT scores were in the ninety-ninth percentile. We’ve admitted people for less.”

Doran looked around the room. He was tired. So, so tired. And hungry.

“Fine. If that’s what it takes for us to move on and get through the rest of these applications, fine,” Doran said. “But I don’t want to hear a word from any of you about participating in the Orientation Week Committee this year. Find someone else to write the icebreakers.” He reached for his tablet, intent on moving on to the next applicant, but stopped short. “And,” he added, “I want Ellaria’s parking spot.”

The parking spot in question was the one nearest his office; parking there would cut three minutes off his walk easily. He looked to Ellaria for her assent.

“Welcome to Citadel Law, Jaime Lannister!” crowed Ellaria, clapping her hands together as Olenna and Lysa whooped with glee.


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: Jaime makes a series of terrible first impressions, Ilyn just wants to enjoy his bacon sandwich, and an invitation is extended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!
> 
> thanks to everyone who left kudos and commented on the last chapter—i'm so psyched y'all are as into the concept of a legally blonde au as i am. 💓
> 
> the chapter count for this will be going up by at least one or two... 🙃 more on that at a later date.
> 
> also, ****the rating will be bumped up to M in chapter 3.**** not for smutty reasons (sorry), but like. definitely for slutty reasons.
> 
> unbeta'd we die like nimble dick!!!! (RIP 😔)

Jaime arrived in Oldtown the night before orientation week, nearly one year to the day of his breakup with Cersei.

The months between his acceptance to the Citadel and his arrival in the Reach were spent in a frenzy. In between listing his King’s Landing townhouse on the market and signing a lease on a three-bedroom house across the Honeywine from the Citadel, Jaime managed to convince Ilyn to follow him with a promise that he would not be expected to suddenly start paying rent once they reached Oldtown, as well as multiple assurances of Oldtown’s lax open container laws.

Jaime had been so focused on preparing for his move to Oldtown that he’d hardly given a thought to what it might be like once he arrived on campus for orientation week, until suddenly he was seated toward the back of a cavernous hall in the middle of campus, doing his best to pay mind to the seemingly endless parade of speakers eager to welcome Citadel Law’s newest students.

The stale scent of incense lingered in the hall. The wooden pew benches on which the students were seated were hard and uncomfortable. Someone two rows in front of him coughed incessantly.

From a raised dais flanked by high, arched windows, the Seneschal waxed poetic about the tin maester’s chains they all hoped to receive in three years’ time. The chains were a call to action, he said, an object that should remind them of their duty to create a better world, and of the bonds forged during their time at the Citadel —

It was at this point that Jaime found himself distracted.

His fellow first-year students seemed a bland bunch: a sea of neutral button-ups and sensible haircuts and incipient frown lines. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to spend time with any of them outside of class, a sentiment many of his fellow students seemed to share about him, if the grimaces being sent his direction were any indication. In a sense, Jaime thought, it was nice that he could bring together so many of his peers in their distaste for him. He was like the polar opposite of a class mascot, uniting them around scorn and distrust, rather than pride or general good feeling.

He made a game of sussing out the reason behind each ogler’s stare.

First, there was the petite, hawkish redhead seated two rows in front of Jaime, on the other side of the wide aisle running down the center of the room. Her lips were pursed in vague disapproval, but there was a trace of pity in her expression. Doubtless she had seen the photos from that ill-fated engagement party, which Taena Merryweather had leaked to Varys’s high society tabloid a mere three days after Jaime’s humiliation. For two weeks, the coverage had been both brutal and relentless, though Jaime had only managed to peek at one headline— _THE LION WEEPS TONIGHT_ it had read, above a picture of him slamming bourbon with red-rimmed eyes—before Tyrion tasked Bronn with setting up internet filters and regular alcohol and grocery deliveries meant to keep Jaime indoors and in blissful ignorance.

Jaime stared right back at the hawkish ginger for as long as it took her to realize she’d been spotted and look away sheepishly.

Then there was the boy seated at the end of Jaime’s row, glaring through golden-brown eyes burning with naked jealousy. The cause for the boy’s bitterness was immediately apparent to Jaime: outfit envy. While his sage green sleeveless jumpsuit was nice enough, he was far too lithe and fresh-faced to have any hope of pulling off Jaime’s leopard-print short sleeve button up—the top three buttons left undone, obviously—and perfectly worn black jeans. And though jumpsuit boy’s chestnut curls gleamed, they lacked the volume and density of Jaime’s own shoulder-length tresses.

Jumpsuit boy caught Jaime watching and immediately returned his attention to the front of the room, nose raised in the air.

Jaime’s eyes crinkled in amusement; he was enjoying this game.

Across the aisle, his gaze was met by a pair of eyes unlike anything he had ever seen: impossibly wide and tranquil, and a vibrant, almost preternatural, shade of blue.

He tilted his head in curiosity. She was unusual looking—certainly not beautiful by any measure—with a broad, freckled face framed by strong, pale brows and an even stronger jaw. Her plump lips were flushed a deep pink, as though she’d been gnawing on them all morning, and her nose was hopelessly crooked. Blonde hair fell in limp waves to her broad shoulders. Strange and disparate as all her parts were, there was something about her that drew the eye.

Eventually, she blinked, slow and questioning, and he realized _he_ was the one staring. Jaime looked away hastily, heating rising in the back of his neck. When he looked back a few moments later, she was staring straight ahead, listening to the Seneschal’s address.

The game went on.

The fellow behind him wore an ugly, wrinkled linen shirt and hated Jaime because he smelled expensive, while wrinkles reeked of yeast and two-in-one.

The shy-looking woman with long, black braids glared at Jaime because he kept glancing down at his phone.

The woman in a bright red summer dress was irritated because he kept picking at his nail polish, sending tiny pink flecks all over his lap and the floor.

Then he caught the eye of a wrathful boy with hair so light it almost looked white, and Jaime was reminded of what he had been trying—and failing—to push from his mind all day: Aerys. He’d hoped that enough time had passed that perhaps the other students—

It didn’t matter what he had hoped. He would never shake the spectre of Aerys; best not to think on it.

Jaime turned away from the boy with the light hair and stared straight ahead unseeingly, his mouth drawn into a scowl.

The sounds of rustling papers and clothing snapped him to attention, and he realized he had spent the entirety of the Seneschal’s welcome speech staring at his fellow students and sulking, rather than absorbing a single word the archmaester had said.

He reached beneath the pew bench and pulled his messenger bag into his lap, digging through it for the printed schedule he had been handed when he arrived on campus. His lips moved silently as he read through it and found that he was next expected to meet with a small group of his classmates in the gardens surrounding an ancient building that had once been a septry.

He looked around the emptying hall, bracing himself for whatever the rest of the day held in store, and for a brief moment wished, absurdly, that his brother were there.

∆ ∆ ∆

Jaime found his icebreaker group in a garden alcove behind the once-septry.

The air was damp and heavy, fragrant with the scent of tropical flowers and greenery. A high, whitewashed arch framed the small nook, and from that arch hung moonlight cacti, their broad, flat stems and aerial roots wound around narrow boards of tree fur and fiber. Heavy, verdant strands of tropical lycopods draped themselves along the sturdy frame of the arch, as did creeping vines with brightly veined leaves. Dense, squat clusters of starry spikemoss and a spiky, iridescent blue-green plant lined the path leading into the small recess. Bromeliads rose above the ground cover, blossoming in vibrant hues of fuchsia and deep purple, and the massive, fan-like fronds of ancient sea coconut trees provided decent cover from the sun.

Jaime stepped through the arch and nodded to the five people who would be his companions for the afternoon; they sat waiting for him on four low stone benches that ringed the alcove.

Seated at the head of the formation, directly across from the arch, was a tall, clean-shaven man with coal-black hair and friendly blue-green eyes. He held himself with easygoing confidence and wore a large sticker on his chest that read _Here to Help,_ denoting him as the third-year student tasked with leading the group. Something about him was familiar, but Jaime found he couldn’t place him.

Two people shared the bench to group leader’s left, one of whom Jaime recognized from the hall—jumpsuit boy, who pointedly ignored him—and another he did not: a kind-faced lad who kept nervously tugging at the crisp, blue button-up that covered his round belly. He offered Jaime a hesitant smile, and Jaime returned a closed-lip smile of his own.

To the right of the group leader were two more benches. Occupying the one closest to the center was a willowy girl with auburn hair. She watched him with sharp, assessing eyes. Something about her reminded him of the librarian at his high school, who scolded Jaime almost daily for snacking or talking too loudly while he browsed the stacks. 

On the bench next to the redhead’s was the massive blonde with the blue eyes Jaime had stared at during the Seneschal's welcome address. Up close, her features were just as mismatched as they’d appeared in the hall, but her wary eyes even more startling than they had been from a distance.

Without thinking about it too deeply, Jaime eschewed the open space on the redhead’s bench and sat next to the blonde. It was a tight fit for their combined bulk; she huffed in annoyance as she shifted on the bench to make room.

“Sorry,” he murmured, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I burn.” A white lie. Jaime gestured at the open space on the redhead’s bench, bathed in the sunlight that managed to slip between the immense palm leaves overhead.

Blue eyes opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by the booming voice of the raven-haired third-year student.

“Right, now that everyone’s here, we can start.” He clapped his hands together, eyes dancing with mirth. “Welcome! I’m Renly Baratheon, a third-year student here at the Citadel—”

“Baratheon?” Jaime interrupted, suddenly realizing why Renly had looked so familiar to him.

Earlier that summer, a few months after Cersei left Brightroar for a new position at Baratheon Enterprises, Varys had published photographs of her lounging half-naked on Robert Baratheon’s yacht. News of their engagement hit the society pages shortly thereafter.

Renly looked just like Robert, minus the mild jaundice and a few inches of height, but the resemblance was enough to make him take an instant disliking toward Renly, which was perhaps a bit unfair, but there was also something in Renly’s smile that raised Jaime’s hackles.

A flash of confusion passed over Renly’s face, quickly replaced by detached curiosity. “Do we know each other?”

“No,” Jaime grunted, “but I’m familiar with your brother.”

“Robert or”—Renly shuddered slightly—“Stannis?”

 _The one fucking my ex-girlfriend_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he replied, “Robert.”

“Ah.” Renly nodded; his mouth tilted in a vague apology. Beside Jaime, blue eyes coughed quietly.

“You were saying, Renly?” she said in a clipped voice. Jaime threw her a sidelong glance and found flat disapproval.

“Yes!” Renly continued, “I’m your guide for today. Here to give you the lay of the land and answer any questions you might have—class registration, getting around campus, things like that.” He looked around the group. “Let's start with introductions. Everyone go around the circle and share a little bit about yourself.”

Renly gestured warmly at the fidgeting fellow seated next to jumpsuit boy. “Care to start us off?”

“Oh, yes!” He nodded so vigorously Jaime worried his head would fly off. “I-I’m, ah, Sam. Samwell Tarly. Ah, let’s see… I hold undergraduate degrees in Westerosi Literature and Environmental Chemistry from Horn Hill College. I’m from Horn Hill, actually, so not too far from here… and then, ah, I received an advanced degree in Philosophy from Riverlands University, another in Engineering from Harrenhal—that one was a slog, but well worth it, I think—and m-most recently, a dual degree in Public Health and Archaic Languages from Winterfell University.”

He wrung his hands for a moment before adding, “Th-this will be my first maester’s chain, though…”

“But not like to be your last, I'd wager,” Jaime quipped. Sam flushed, while the blonde threw Jaime a sharp look.

“How old _are_ you?” asked the redhead, sounding awed.

“Twenty-four,” responded Sam. “I was, ah, fifteen when I graduated from Horn Hill. I would have started here last fall, but I deferred a year to spend some time at the Wall.”

“That’s incredibly impressive,” the big blonde said, gently.

“Th-thank you.”

Jumpsuit boy cut in with a series a rapid-fire facts about himself. “Right. I’m Loras Tyrell, of the Highgarden Tyrells. My nan’s a professor here—we go back seven generations at Citadel Law, actually. I have an IQ of 187, so. Definitely smarter than you lot.” He looked Sam’s way with a smirk. “Even you, wunderkind. Just didn’t feel like spending my prime years in a library—didn’t stop me from graduating at the top of my class at KLU—”

“Did you? So did I.” Jaime leaned back, raising both eyebrows and smiling laconically.

Loras sniffed. “That must have been, what? Fifty years ago?”

“Actually—”

“Are you going to interrupt everyone who speaks?” barked blue eyes. Jaime turned his head toward her slowly.

“Only when I have something really, _really_ important to say.”

She scoffed; Jaime found himself quite amused by the sound.

“Now, now.” Renly chuckled. “Ample opportunity for spirited debate in the classroom. Now, who’s next?” he addressed the group, but his eyes were glued to Loras, who seemed to welcome the attention.

“Me,” answered the redhead, smiling. “Hello, I’m Sansa Stark. I graduated from Winterfell University this past spring with a degree in Macroeconomics. I like sewing and baking, and I’m a competitive runner.”

“Oh, me too!” exclaimed the blonde, smiling for the first time since Jaime had spotted her that morning.

“Who’s interrupting now?” crowed Jaime. The blonde flushed a bright pink, much to his satisfaction.

Sansa smoothed over the tension easily. “Are you planning on running the Oldtown half-marathon in the spring?” Blue eyes nodded. “We should train together! My old pacing partner is still back at Winterfell, I could use a new one.”

Sansa grinned when the blonde agreed with enthusiasm, then continued, “What else… uhm… oh! I also co-organize the march for Lesbians Against Biological Determinism and Trans Exclusion—LABDATE for short—at the northern Pride celebration every year.”

Blue eyes cooed— _actually cooed—_ in approval.

“How about you?” Renly addressed Jaime.

He nodded. “Hello, I’m Jaime. Lannister.” Jaime cleared his throat and braced for everyone’s reactions.

Sam and the blonde looked shocked, while Sansa nodded knowingly, completely unsurprised. Renly seemed to put two and two together, realizing the connection between Jaime and Robert. His lips formed a delicate O-shape, and he leaned forward with interest. Loras laughed mockingly.

“Well _that_ explains things,” he intoned. “I thought you looked familiar. Were your legal fees too astronomical for even the great Tywin Lannister? Taking a do-it-yourself legal defense approach next time—”

“Next time I kill someone?” The deadened nerves of Jaime’s hand tingled as the group fell silent. He spoke through gritted teeth, “Yes, as a matter of fact. Father felt it was the more economical choice.”

The blonde stiffened beside him, eyes wide with disbelief. Sam gasped and shifted in his seat nervously. Only Sansa seemed unphased, regarding Jaime calmly, as though he were a frightened animal.

Renly cleared his throat, clearly eager to correct course—though Jaime did not miss the indulgent smile he flashed at Loras. “Just one more, then.” He grinned charmingly at the blushing blonde.

Jaime almost cut in yet again to point out that he hadn’t had a chance to _share a little about himself_ with the group, but thought better of it. For one thing, it seemed his peers already possessed sufficient information regarding his character and accomplishments, such as they were. For another, he couldn't be bothered.

Besides, he really wanted to know the blonde’s name.

“I’m Brienne Tarth,” she said, waving a large, freckled hand through the air. “I completed my undergraduate studies here, at the Citadel—I wrote my dissertation on women in combat during the Age of Heroes. For the last two years or so, I’ve been on Tarth—the island, I mean—where I worked for the Immigrant Legal Defense Project as an interpreter for Essosi migrants seeking asylum in the Stormlands and, uhm—lived.”

Brienne trailed off awkwardly, her ears turning the deepest shade of red Jaime had ever seen on a human body.

“So you’re a white hat,” Jaime commented, needling her without really knowing why.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she snapped, scowling.

He held his hands up in capitulation, though he found himself increasingly irritated with Brienne’s determination to take everything he said in the least generous light possible. “Nothing at all. Just an observation.”

“Didn’t sound like _nothing_.”

“I only meant to convey that you seem the type—”

“The type to what?”

“You know, to _do good_ —”

"And you find that funny?"

“I think that about covers us for introductions,” interjected Renly, glancing apprehensively between Jaime and Brienne. “How about we move on to discussing class registration, hm?”

They relented, and Jaime let Renly’s spiel about credit requirements and registration windows wash over him.

Brienne gave him a few more dirty looks throughout the afternoon, and Jaime found an odd sort of thrill in meeting each one with a sardonic little grin he knew would stoke her ire.

∆ ∆ ∆

“How do I look?”

Jaime stood before Ilyn in the kitchen nook. He smoothed one hand over his cream cashmere mock turtleneck and artfully placed the other in the pocket of his chocolate brown slacks, striking what he felt was a fetching pose.

“Like a knob,” Ilyn declared, not bothering to look up from his bacon sandwich.

“Oh, you big flirt,” Jaime answered.

He’d been calm all morning, but now his anxiety had begun to stir.

By the end of orientation, Jaime had failed to make a favorable impression on, well—anyone. Least of all Brienne, who he'd run into and, admittedly, sought out repeatedly over the course of the week, only to be met with her indignation and displeasure.

Which was fine; he hadn’t come to the Citadel to make friends. He pursued a much more important goal, one he could, and would, realize without anyone’s help.

The plan was simple.

Step one: get through the next three years with as little effort as possible.

Step two: receive his tin maester’s chain.

Step three: secure a lucrative position with some multinational conglomerate ( _not_ Brightroar).

Step four: use his position as a high-powered legal representative for a multinational conglomerate to acquire and dissolve Baratheon Enterprises.

And finally, step five: rub Cersei’s face in his success and impressive lifestyle and revel in her deep, deep, _deep_ regret. 

It felt good to have a sense of purpose; it had been so long since he’d had that.

Except now, Jaime realized that he’d spent his time since arriving in the Reach ruminating on how little he cared for his classmates’ regard, and how good it would feel to finally show Cersei how much he was capable of achieving without her, while the syllabus for his first class sat unopened in his email inbox, as it had for the better part of two weeks.

The mock turtleneck suddenly felt just a bit tighter than it had thirty seconds ago.

Meanwhile, Ilyn ignored him as steadfastly as Jaime had ignored the syllabus for Civil Procedure. He took a sloppy bite of his breakfast and slurped his coffee loudly as if to drown out Jaime’s fretting.

“What about the hair? Would wearing it loose be too much? I want to look serious, but not _too_ serious—but I also don’t want to look like I’m heading to a night club.” He patted the low bun, in which he had felt so confident only five minutes earlier. “Well?”

Ilyn looked up at Jaime balefully as he chewed; Jaime was starting to think he’d made a mistake in coming to Ilyn for sartorial reassurance.

“No, no, you’re right. The hair is fine.”

Jaime pulled his shoulders back, then grabbed his messenger bag and keys from the kitchen island and headed toward the front door.

∆ ∆ ∆

The drive to campus was a short one, and he managed to find an excellent parking space, but Jaime still found himself walking at a brisk pace to avoid tardiness.

By the time he entered the classroom—four minutes early—he felt sweat pooling in the small of his back and gathering at his hairline, and a small knot of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. He scanned the room and was relieved to find plenty of open seats, including one in the back row, next to Brienne.

She was focused on spreading out her laptop, notes, and a few printouts across her desk and did not look up as he approached, nor did she take notice as he dropped into the seat next to hers, so Jaime took it upon himself to alert her to his presence.

“Morning, Tart,” he purred, proud of the nickname that had come to him the night before. Brienne looked up then, brow knit in confusion.

Her puzzlement morphed into unbridled irritation at the sight of him: the corners of her eyes—just as blue as he remembered, only bluer—were tight, like she was fighting the impulse to wring his neck.

“My name,” she began testily, “is _Tarth_. Brienne _Tarth_. There’s an h at the end.”

“Thank you for the clarification.” Jaime pulled out his laptop, wireless one-handed keyboard, and glasses from his bag, arranging them on the desk with care. “Miss me over the weekend, Tart?” he asked innocently, bringing his tongue to the ridge behind his teeth to produce the hard _t_ sound with great relish.

She turned her face up toward the ceiling, jaw clenched so tightly as to shatter. When she looked back at him, she spoke through her teeth, “There are other seats, you know. Seats that are further away from me.”

“Too true,” he agreed, and stayed put exactly where he was.

They passed the next minute in silence. Jaime took the opportunity to scan the syllabus and realized that he was meant to have read two cases in preparation for class. He bounced his knee nervously and tried to soothe himself with the thought that the professor was unlikely to call on him, and even if she did, he’d talked himself out of more dire situations.

“Did you do the reading?” he asked Brienne. She shushed him and kept her eyes trained on the front of the room, where their professor stood in front of the chalkboard.

She greeted the class with a subdued smile and introduced herself as Professor Catelyn Stark, then handed what looked like a blank seating chart to someone in the first row.

“The seat you’ve picked will be yours for the rest of the semester. I hope you’ve chosen wisely,” she said.

Under her breath, Brienne swore.

When the seating chart arrived at his desk, Jaime whispered to her, “I’m not so bad, Tart.” It came out far more plaintively than he’d intended. He scribbled down his name, then slid the chart toward Brienne; she took it with a pinched expression and said nothing as she wrote her name in neat cursive.

“It could be worse,” he ventured, pulling his lips into his most charming, shiny smile. “At least I'm pretty.”

She flinched, neck going a splotchy red, as she passed the paper along to the next person.

“If we’re going to be sitting next to each other all semester, please do your best to _shut up_ ,” she hissed.

“I can certainly do my best, but I’ll warn you now that in this—and only this—my best isn’t very good—”

“Mr. Lannister,” Professor Stark called out; the seating chart had made its way back to her.

At the sound of his name, Jaime snapped to attention.

“You seem to be in a talkative mood this morning.” With a stern expression, she leaned her hip against the desk at the front of the room and folded her arms across her chest. “Can you summarize the facts of _Frey vs. Frey_ for the class?”

The answer was no.

In fact, Jaime had never even heard of _Frey vs. Frey_. Silently, he cursed the professor for not assigning a more well-known case, like _Crown vs. Craster_ , which had outlawed bigamy a good four centuries later than one might have thought. How was he supposed to spin a bullshit answer to a question about a case he’d never even heard of?

It was his damn nerves; were it not for that, he could have breezed through the question with ease. And he could neither articulate a basis for nor prove the theory, but he also blamed Brienne. Something about her dour attitude threw him off his game. Jaime cleared his throat, stalling for time.

When he spoke, he was surprised by the relaxed tenor of his voice. “I’m sorry, Professor Stark,” he said, “I wasn’t aware there was an assignment for today.”

Her eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “Oh?” She glanced down once more at the seating chart. “Ms. Tarth.”

Brienne straightened in her seat. “Yes, Professor Stark.”

“Do you believe it’s acceptable to arrive to class unprepared?”

“No, Professor Stark, I don’t,” she answered immediately, and her smug satisfaction did not go unnoticed by Jaime.

“And if I were to ask Mr. Lannister to leave this classroom, and to return only when he is prepared, would you think that to be a sound decision?”

Jaime looked at Brienne then, relieved to find her hesitating. With her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, she gave him a sidelong glance. It was only when she spoke that Jaime realized he’d been staring at her mouth as he waited for her answer.

“W-well, I wouldn’t…” Brienne swallowed, glancing about the room timidly. Finally, she exhaled forcefully. “I don’t know what to say, Professor Stark. It’s your decision to make, and whatever you choose, I wouldn’t presume to question you.”

Jaime pursed his lips and lowered his gaze to where his left hand was clenched in his lap, preparing to be thrown under the bus.

Brienne continued in a strong, clear voice, “However.”

Jaime’s jaw nearly dropped. A giddy feeling rose in his chest. Had he found his very own white knight?

“I would question the environment fostered by an educator who banishes her students from the classroom on the first day, and whether or not that environment is more conducive to fear than it is to learning.”

She leaned back in her seat, as if taken aback by her own brazenness. Every pair of eyes in the room flitted between Brienne and Jaime and Professor Stark, who watched Brienne with a steady expression, one corner of her mouth quirked in what Jaime was tempted to call a smile.

“Would you now?” inquired Professor Stark.

“I-I would.” A pause. “Yes.”

“Very well.”

Professor Stark pushed off from the desk. Slowly, she made her way to the door and opened it, holding it open as she faced them both.

“You can both leave. Ms. Tarth, I’m sure it would be no trouble at all for you to review the reading with Mr. Lannister to ensure his comprehension. And as for you, Mr. Lannister.” Professor Stark's eyes narrowed. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime watched as Brienne gaped in disbelief. “The next time you walk into my classroom, you _will_ be prepared.”

Brienne silently gathered her things, rising from her seat with stiff, jerky movements. Jaime followed her out.

“Mr. Tarly, what can you tell us about subject matter jurisdiction?” Professor Stark asked as Jaime and Brienne took their leave.

The door swung shut behind them just as Sam stammered out a reply.

They were halfway down the hall when Brienne turned heel to face him, fury writ large in the blaze of her eyes. Jaime realized it was the first time they had stood face to face; she was tall—even taller than him, by at least three inches, if not more.

The hallway was not air-conditioned and thus near sweltering. Jaime tugged at his collar and briefly lamented his decision to wear a shirt with long sleeves.

“You’re much taller than I’d realized,” he blurted out, barely suppressing the cringe that followed.

Brienne’s response was to poke him hard in the chest with one long finger. “Perhaps next time you might consider actually doing your reading instead of-of—pressing your stupid slacks, or deep conditioning your hair, or—whatever it is you spent the weekend doing!”

He raised an eyebrow in wry amusement and abstained from mentioning that he was a Lannister, and as such, had never pressed a pair of slacks—or anything—in his life.

“Are you trying to compliment my outfit, Tart? Next time try, _you look nice, Jaime_ , or even, _looking smart today, Jaime_ ,” he drawled.

Two high spots of color rose in her cheeks as she sputtered, “Listen to me, Lannister. Your father’s money might be able to get you out of just about anything, but it can’t get you out of the basic work required for a maester’s chain.”

“Oh, lighten up. It’s just one class—”

“Just one class? _Just one class?!_ ” she fumed. As she glowered over him, her blush deepened to a shocking shade of crimson which called to mind the Lannister heraldry. “Maybe it’s just one class to you, but to me, it’s my education—which I would like to use to _help people—_ and now, I— _we_ are missing out on the fundamentals of the fundamentals! All thanks to you!”

He blinked at her, baffled.

“Were we in two different classrooms just now? Because as I remember it, Professor Stark was the one who kicked us out. And, for what it’s worth, I wasn’t the one who asked you to—what was it you said? _Question the environment fostered_ —”

“Oh, hush!” she growled. Brienne produced a small stack of papers from her backpack.

With more force than Jamie felt the situation warranted, she pressed the papers into his hand.

“Here. The reading you should have done last night. If you have any questions, do me a favor and ask _anyone but me._ ”

And with that, she stormed off. Jaime was almost certain he heard her mutter _prick_ as she turned a corner.

“Always a pleasure, Tart!” he called out, but she had already disappeared from view.

∆ ∆ ∆

From a wooden bench in a shady corner of one of the Citadel’s many bustling courtyards, Jaime tackled _Frey vs. Frey_ , a case involving two brothers, in which the elder sued the younger for seeking to legally raise his age so as to supersede the elder in the inheritance of their father’s estate; ultimately, the younger brother’s petition to the state was dismissed, and the elder Frey withdrew his suit.

He was about to start the second case study— _Crown_ _vs. Bolton_ —when a newspaper hit the empty seat next to him with a loud _thwack_. Above the fold, a familiar heiress hid her harried expression behind enormous designer sunglasses as she exited a courthouse: _FIERY PASSION ENDS IN COLD BLOOD_ read the headline _._

“Jaime Lannister!” a lilting voice exclaimed; Jaime recognized the speaker immediately, and looked up at his old friend with a broad grin.

“Elia Martell.” He stood and pulled her into a tight embrace. Her small hands squeezed his shoulders gently as they pulled apart.

“I’d heard you’d enrolled, but I didn’t know whether to believe it...”

Jaime sat back down, shrugging placidly.

“The rumors are true—and grossly understated,” he drolled, gesturing for Elia to join him on the bench. “Very unlike me to aspire to something as lofty as a maester’s chain, I know. I can give you my brother’s number if you’d like to get in on the betting pool. I believe the odds of me finishing out the semester currently sit at nine-to-one.”

“Oh, stop that,” Elia chided, taking a seat next to him. She looked him over with the scrutiny of a mother welcoming her children home after a long absence. “It’s good to see you, Jaime. I’m glad you’re here.”

The impulse to return her warmth with flippancy was too strong, too familiar and comfortable to pass up, so he hummed and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “You may be the only one. It appears my reputation precedes me even here.” He pouted in a way that used to make her laugh.

Instead of laughing, her face fell. There it was, he realized, the weight of everything that had happened—to him and Elia both—all those years ago, pulling her lips down into a minuscule frown that had Jaime desperate for a new topic of conversation.

They’d never talked about it—about what happened, or how. Jaime had no plans to change that today.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you graduated last year.”

“I did!” she replied brightly, a proud glimmer returning to her dark eyes. “I’m a first-year associate at Petyr Baelish’s firm. I’m assisting with one of his 1L classes this semester, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Jaime forced himself to mirror her smile, feigning excitement.

The truth was that Elia was a reminder of the Aerys incident, of everything it signified in his life and the choices he’d made—or not made—and Jaime wasn’t sure how he felt about the prospect of seeing her regularly.

Elia’s brief moment of levity was quickly replaced by a melancholy seriousness. “Listen, Jaime,” she ventured, “I’m sorry I never reached out to you. After— _after_. I, out of everyone—”

"Had every right to want to move on." He waved away her concern. The smile fixed on this face was a rictus of discomfort and panic.

He _had_ wanted to hear from her after everything. When he hadn’t, it hurt, and he wasn’t sure if it was the sting of embarrassment over overestimating the closeness of their friendship, or simply that he hated that anyone—even a friend, even her—had the power to hurt him. He wanted to be above that. All of it.

“Don’t apologize. All in the past, now.”

Her answering nod was not so much acquiesence as it was a promise that they would revisit the subject at a later date.

“Hey,” she cried out suddenly, “what are you doing on Friday?”

“Oh, the usual,” he intoned, “ambling around the house trying to goad Ilyn into feeling a feeling. I’m getting close, you know. By this time next year, I might even be goading him into _expressing_ a feeling. But if any of my classmates ask, you tell them Tywin and I are hatching some dastardly plot." He tapped his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. "Fracking in Skagos, maybe.”

Elia snorted as she reached into her bag for her phone. “Well, if you tire of Ilyn, the Tyrells are throwing a party—a costume party,” she said, half-distracted by typing out what looked like an address.

“The Tyrell _s_? Plural?” The idea of there being another mini—or worse, supersized—Loras was an amusing, but unpleasant, thought.

“Yes, Loras—do you know him? He’s another 1L—and his sister Margaery—she’s an undergraduate student, a senior, studying… political science? I think?” Elia looked up and smiled just as Jaime's phone chimed with a text from her. “Anyway, you should come.”

“I don’t think—”

“Your self-awareness is thrilling,” she snarked. “The Tyrells aren’t so bad once you get to know them. Oberyn is quite close with their eldest brother, actually. Anyway, Friday. 9 pm, so show up closer to ten—Margaery will like that.” As if Jaime needed advice on arriving fashionably late to a party.

Elia continued, “And don’t forget the costume. Tyrell parties are usually on the more… naughty side, so you can have your bum hanging out but keep your other bits”—she waved at his crotch—“covered. Yeah?”

Without realizing he was doing it, or even wanting to, Jaime agreed.

“Excellent!” She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got to get to class, but I’ll see you on Friday, okay?”

“Okay,” Jaime replied dumbly, waving as Elia flounced away.

Jaime stared down at his hands, picking at the polish on his right hand as he considered the prospect of attending a party thrown by someone who openly disliked him, and to which he’d been invited secondhand. Not showing up was always an option, but that would disappoint Elia, which Jaime was loathe to do, even after six years of little to no contact between them.

There were worse ways to spend a Friday night, he supposed; he did always delight in any opportunity to dress up, and he had a very specific outfit he’d been dying to wear. At the very least, Jaime knew he would take enormous pleasure in outshining Loras while he drank his booze.

He stood from the bench, resolving that if he was to attend this party, he would do it with a fresh manicure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, pals! 👽 i'd love to hear what you think so far. 
> 
> as always, you can yell at me on tumblr @tiredandtoothless. come say hi and i'll send you the dev hynes/chris pine/riz ahmed outfits that have inspired/will continue to inspire the many fits i plan on forcing jaime into before this lil thing is done. 😏
> 
> next time: jaime gets his nails did, margaery takes some scissors to a pair of cargo pants, and is anyone else concerned about chafing?
> 
> xoxo


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